Chapter 17: The Veil of Maya (17)
On the evening of August 8th, a highly anticipated signing ceremony abruptly came to an end.
Within half an hour, Wen Mingwei’s extraordinarily handsome face and the imposing black iris tattoo on his wrist, along with the announcement of the Ren Xinqiao project’s failure, dominated the front pages of major media outlets.
The organizers did their best to bring the reception to a dignified close, claiming that plans had changed suddenly and the signing would be postponed to a later date. The guests cooperated, dispersing in an orderly fashion. If not for the explosion of news, it would have seemed as if nothing had happened at all.
Wen Mingwei remained seated, calmly finishing his drink. A faint trace of moisture glistened on his lips beneath the grand chandelier’s light. His long hair cascaded over his shoulders, exuding an air of composure and nobility.
At that moment, photography was prohibited, and few dared to look at him. Only one familiar gaze cut through the crowd from a distance, fixed firmly on him.
Wen Mingwei stood and walked toward the owner of that gaze.
Just a few steps through the dispersing crowd, Wen Mingwei’s demeanor remained almost unchanged from before, yet something silent and subtle shifted between him and Tan Zhao. The latter stared silently for several seconds before finally saying, “Wen Mingwei, you lied to me.”
“...”
“Didn’t you say you were going bankrupt? Powerless, alone and helpless? Planning to find someone rich to support you?”
Tan Zhao’s expression was complicated, though his “complicated” was hardly complex. In a room—and indeed across the entire internet—everyone was stunned by Wen Mingwei’s mysterious identity and endless speculation. Yet his first reaction was that Wen Mingwei had deceived him, not worry over the seven billion that hung in the balance.
Indeed, this was hardly something for young master Tan Zhao to fret over.
Still, he couldn’t relax the tension in his chest. He didn’t fully understand what had just occurred, only that Wen Mingwei wielded immense power, able to halt a carefully orchestrated political deal with a few casual words. Across the entire alliance, how many could do the same?
“Let’s head back first,” Tan Zhao said, glancing around to avoid the curious eyes watching them. He took Wen Mingwei’s arm and turned to leave.
Outside the venue, the car was waiting, driven by Secretary Han.
Throughout the ride home, Tan Zhao’s phone buzzed incessantly—calls from his uncle and various board members.
At first, he answered a few, responding differently depending on their stance. But as the calls came without end, he stopped answering altogether, replying irritably with “I don’t know,” “I’m not sure,” “Don’t ask me.” Finally, he hung up and powered off his phone. Peace returned to the car.
The journey was short. Outside the window, the night was thick and neon lights streaked by like colorful ribbons.
Secretary Han sat silently in the front, not daring to utter a word. Later, reflecting as a wise bystander, he thought, “I knew it—Wen Mingwei is no ordinary man. Doesn’t the young master see that? He must have been blinded by beauty. Foolish!”
Just as he pondered this, a partition descended behind him, blocking his view.
The rear cabin had been divided into a private space. Tan Zhao glanced awkwardly at Wen Mingwei, about to speak, when a phone rang again.
This time it wasn’t Tan Zhao’s—it was Wen Mingwei’s.
Frowning, Tan Zhao caught sight of the name “Zheng” on the screen and a suspicion flashed through his mind. But Wen Mingwei didn’t answer, instead following Tan Zhao’s example and switched off his phone.
“Why not answer?” Tan Zhao asked. “Is that Zheng He? Are you close?”
“Sort of,” Wen Mingwei replied vaguely, leaning back and flashing Tan Zhao a smile.
That smile was the same as always—gentle, tinged with affection, intimate yet ambiguous. But whenever Tan Zhao recalled Wen Mingwei’s disdainful gaze at the signing ceremony, a flush of embarrassment and annoyance welled up—he felt like a fool, thoroughly toyed with.
“Wen Mingwei,” Tan Zhao said sternly, “you owe me a full explanation.”
“Why?” Wen Mingwei suddenly leaned close, nearly touching his face. “I was just trying to help you. Why are you so harsh?”
“I’m not being harsh.”
“You are,” Wen Mingwei countered with mock grievance. “Look at your expression—as if I did something wrong and you’re scolding me. And you say you’re not being harsh?”
“...”
What expression? Harsh? There was no mirror nearby; Tan Zhao glanced at the car window but the angle distorted his reflection.
His eyes darted back hesitantly and met Wen Mingwei’s teasing smile right in front of him. Suddenly, he realized, “You’re playing me again!”
“False accusation,” Wen Mingwei chuckled softly. “How do you want me to explain? I just thought pretending to be pitiful would make it easier to win you over.”
He pressed a hand to Tan Zhao’s shoulder, the black iris tattoo on his wrist sliding down slightly under Tan Zhao’s watchful gaze, disappearing beneath his sleeve.
Tan Zhao said reservedly, “It’s all the same to me. I like who I like, and don’t like who I don’t, regardless of your identity.”
“Then do you like me or not?”
“...”
Wen Mingwei asked straightforwardly, but Tan Zhao neither confirmed nor denied, turning his eyes away. “None of your business.”
Fine. Wen Mingwei didn’t press and smiled as he returned to his seat.
Tan Zhao was silent for a moment, his eyes wandering before settling back on Wen Mingwei with a slightly awkward expression, as if wanting to thank him—for stopping the signing earlier—but the polite words stuck in his throat, turning into a question instead.
“Why does Zheng He listen to you?”
“Long story,” Wen Mingwei replied. “He certainly doesn’t want to listen to me, but he has to.”
“Has to?”
“This is hard to explain.”
With a single sentence, Wen Mingwei glossed over his turbulent past, casually saying, “Just understand this: the marshal and I have been tied to the same ship. That ship hasn’t sunk yet—if it did, his political career would be over.”
“...”
“So, the marshal is the one most afraid of my identity being exposed,” Wen Mingwei paused, “and also the one who most wants me dead.”
Silence filled the car. The soundproof partition preserved their conversation in complete privacy; the driver heard nothing.
The sudden mention of “dead” pierced Tan Zhao sharply, yet Wen Mingwei was smiling.
“...He wants to kill you?”
“He wants to, but whether he can is another matter,” Wen Mingwei laughed again. “Otherwise, why would I be sitting here?”
Tan Zhao was silent, fingers clenching beneath his sleeve. Suddenly, he asked, “Will what happened tonight bring you trouble?”
This was more sincere than a simple thanks—he was worried Wen Mingwei might suffer greater repercussions.
Unfortunately, Wen Mingwei didn’t accept the concern. He replied frankly, “I didn’t do it just to help you tonight. Mainly, it was to stop him. If he wants me dead so badly, how can I let him come to power?”
“...”
Tan Zhao was silent for a moment. “Oh, so I was just being sentimental.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the car stopped.
Secretary Han, unaware of their private conversation, politely opened the door.
He opened Tan Zhao’s side. The young master stepped out first, long legs leading the way. He turned back and stared at Wen Mingwei, refusing to reach out and steady his noble companion.
Though Wen Mingwei didn’t need support, the subtle tension was not lost on Secretary Han, whose curious eyes flickered twice. Seeing Tan Zhao’s stern face and Wen Mingwei’s continued smile, it was clear this was no argument but flirtation.
“Tan Zhao,” Wen Mingwei actually asked for help, “my leg’s numb. I can’t move.”
“...”
Secretary Han’s scalp tingled, knowing it wasn’t the time to be helpful, and wisely stepped back.
Yet the young master remained still.
Wen Mingwei adjusted his hair helplessly and tried to get out himself. Whether his leg was truly numb or not, the moment he stepped out his foot faltered, his long hair scattering as he nearly fell out of the car.
Seeing Wen Mingwei about to tumble, Tan Zhao finally gave in, opening his arms to catch him.
As he held him close, Wen Mingwei leaned against Tan Zhao’s broad shoulder, whispering in his ear, “If it weren’t for you, how could I be so conspicuous?”
“...”
“It’s still a bit troublesome, but I don’t want you to worry too much.”
That was his reply to the “sentimental” remark.
Then Wen Mingwei poked Tan Zhao’s mock-serious face. “Why does it always end up my fault? Our young master has a terrible temper—no matter how much you try to coax him, it never works.”
“Slander,” Tan Zhao said, grabbing Wen Mingwei’s playful hand. He looked back at Secretary Han. “Park the car and you’re done for the day.”
The outsider was sent away. Tan Zhao led Wen Mingwei upstairs.
They had been living together for countless days now. Their relationship seemed unchanged, yet very different from when Wen Mingwei first moved in.
Tan Zhao openly held Wen Mingwei’s hand, intertwining their fingers. If asked why, perhaps it was because no one said “ordinary friends” couldn’t hold hands.
After all, they’d already slept together and embraced; what harm was there in holding hands?
Lost in thought, Tan Zhao suddenly glanced at Wen Mingwei’s lips as they exited the elevator.
Wen Mingwei’s skin was pale, but his lips were richly colored, as if the blood there was especially abundant, like ripe fruit that would burst with juice at a bite.
Embarrassed, Tan Zhao quickly looked away, his mind blank for several seconds before struggling to change the subject. “By the way, do you know when my birthday is?”
He spoke seriously, leaping between topics so quickly Wen Mingwei was momentarily stunned. “Of course,” Wen Mingwei answered instinctively.
Tan Zhao was surprised. “You know?”
“Yeah, it’s coming up soon.” Wen Mingwei walked ahead, opening the door. The smart home lights responded immediately, the air conditioning turned on, and the curtains slowly closed.
Their housekeeping robot was a cute but not very smart model—chosen by Secretary Han. Hearing Wen Mingwei’s voice, it dashed over eagerly to his feet, clearly trying to imitate a beloved pet dog greeting its owner.
But before it could reach Wen Mingwei’s legs, the young master kicked it aside.
“So?” Tan Zhao asked. “Are you going to do something for my birthday?”
“Of course,” Wen Mingwei said, pushing Tan Zhao into the bathroom and helping loosen his tie. “We’ll talk about that later. You shower first—I have to make a call.”
“To whom?”
“To Zheng He.”
“...”
Leaning against the bathroom door with one hand, Tan Zhao suddenly said, “Wen Mingwei, although I don’t quite understand your background right now, and it seems you don’t want to get into details,” his tone serious, “if there’s anything I can do to help, I want to.”
“Really?” Wen Mingwei replied nonchalantly.
But Tan Zhao wore the expression of someone about to open his heart—not only because of what Wen Mingwei had done tonight, but because Wen Mingwei was the only person he could truly trust and rely on.